


Victory

by tatianasletter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Co-workers, F/M, Ministry of Magic, Wizarding Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 23:57:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4897231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatianasletter/pseuds/tatianasletter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot AU set 12 years after DH. About politics and things left unsaid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victory

She cast a final beaming smile to the room at large before entering her darkened office and shutting the door. The whoops and cheers began to die down after a few minutes, replaced by the raucous sound of straight laces finally being loosened. A few squeals accompanied the popping of another bottle of champagne.

The only light in the office was the lilac glow of the silenced wizarding television in the corner. The talking heads would be chewing over this one for hours yet.

Hermione Granger sat down behind her desk and closed her eyes. At long last, tears spilled down her cheeks. She gripped the arms of the chair tightly, biting her lip to hold back the sound trying to fight its way out of her throat.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Tonight was supposed to be happy. A celebration. The culmination of years of hard slog. Ron was supposed to be here with her, bursting with pride while somehow still making light of it all.

She whimpered his name. Where was he right now? He hadn't been home in days, not since the fight, and she hadn't be able to work up the nerve to ask Harry if he was staying with him and Ginny. There had been so much to do for the campaign, it had been all too easy to compartmentalise.

“Oh God,” she whispered aloud, recalling the argument. The things he said. The things _she_ said. The truth sharpened and twisted to wound.

She put her head in her heads, the gnawing ache in her chest growing, forcing her to take gulping breaths. The tears flowed freely.

_Over._

They had veered close to the edge many times before, she knew, but something had always drawn them back. Usually whoever had started the argument in the first place. She rubbed reflexively at the ring on her left hand. He'd told her to take it off and made her promise not to wear it in public any longer. This more than anything made it clear that it was truly over. He had long felt cut off from her, watching from the wings as she waged a war of words and will at the Ministry. The ring had soothed that hurt for a time. A piece of him – of them – was always with her, punctuating her every gesture with its subtle gleam. She couldn't bear to remove it. She wasn't ready to admit that these were tears of grief.

A while later, her breathing calmed. She released a tiny, trembling sigh. Something made her look up. She immediately found her wand and unmuted the television. Draco Malfoy's cool countenance filled the screen. She watched, transfixed.

He was dressed in slate grey and looked completely at ease with the camera on him. His face gave no sign that he hadn't slept in forty-eight hours.

“- getting any younger,” he smirked at the interviewer, Rita Skeeter, who laughed coldly.

“So, Draco, people have been calling you the power behind the throne, saying that you are partly responsible for Hermione Granger's meteoric rise at the Ministry, and now to the benches of the Wizengamot. How do you respond to these statements?”

This was an easy one to start off with. Hermione could recite his answer in her sleep.

His delivery was fluid yet unstudied. “The first thing I would say to that is: anyone who thinks Hermione Granger couldn't have made it to the Wizengamot on her own needs to get their head checked at St. Mungo's.” He flashed a thin smile at Skeeter again before turning serious. “About ten years ago now – I can't believe it's been that long – Granger and I found that we worked quite well together and that our political goals dovetailed quite nicely. Much to our own surprise. We helped each out other over the years at the Ministry, but I wouldn't say that I exerted any especial effort to promote her career or causes over others – up until last year, of course.”

“Which is when you became Hermione Granger's official campaign manager to elect her to the Wizengamot. I think it's fair to say that your campaign has revolutionised politics in Britain – not only have you got the first Muggleborn in history elected to the Wizengamot, but at thirty-two she's also the youngest ever member and the first candidate to run on a clear platform of policies. Tell us about that.”

On screen, Malfoy leaned back in his chair. Hermione unconsciously mimicked the action.

“Well, Granger and I both agreed that the process for electing members of the Wizengamot was needlessly opaque and obfuscating. Historically, Quorums have been expected to vote based on private assumptions about what candidates will do if elected, rather than publicly stated policies. In the past, this effectively meant that predictable, safe candidates were chosen over risky, ambitious reformers, with a few notable exceptions such as Albus Dumbledore-”

“Speaking of Albus Dumbledore, you-”

“-I'm not here to talk about that.” Malfoy's voice was icy.

“Oh come now, Draco. It's in the past now.” Skeeter's smile didn't reach her eyes. “We're all friends here. The Wizarding world is just so impressed by your entire generation and what you've achieved since the War, there's no harm in-”

“I won't repeat myself.”

Hermione couldn't see it on the screen, but she knew there was a vein throbbing near his temple.

There was a brief stand-off after which Skeeter's lips – painted in a garish red – thinned in displeasure.

“Let's talk about blood, Mr Malfoy,” she snapped. “It hasn't escaped anyone's notice that you are a Pureblood promoting a Muggleborn candidate. What impact has blood had on Miss Granger's success tonight and in the past?”

Malfoy eased into the chair once more. “It's no secret that there are pockets of our society where blood prejudice still holds sway. When Granger and I first joined our efforts, it was often necessary for me to present her ideas as my own in certain circles.” He sipped from a glass of water. “Prejudice cuts both ways, however. We each gave the other a voice when others would have preferred to silence us.”

“That's all well and good,” Skeeter pressed on, “yet you insist on calling your candidate Granger. You've known each other since Hogwarts, you claim that you've had a good working relationship for ten years, care to explain why you're still not on first-name terms?”

Malfoy half-rolled his eyes. “I find the press's fascination with what we call each other very curious,” he said. “We've called each other by our surnames since we were eleven years old. It's a difficult habit to break.” Skeeter opened her mouth, but Malfoy surprised her by continuing, “And I suppose... the knowledge that we haven't always got along as well as we do now helps keep us on our toes.”

“Can you expand on that?”

Malfoy drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. He was discomfited, Hermione could tell.

“Everyone knows we weren't each other's greatest fans at Hogwarts or immediately after the war,” he said, speaking louder than before. “It's beneficial to be reminded that your ally was once your enemy, your harshest critic.” He paused. She could have sworn that his eyes flicked towards the camera. “The surnames are part of that, I think.”

“So you never call each other by your first names?”

Only when things are serious, Hermione thought.

“Only when things are serious,” replied Malfoy.

Hermione flicked her wand and the television switched off. She welcomed the darkness. It enveloped her, shrouding her from the world and from herself. She muttered a word and her hair sprung out of its elegant hold, pins flying away in all directions. She curled up on the chair in the dark and fled into sleep. 

* * *

“Ron!” She awoke with his name on her lips, slowly gaining awareness that someone was knocking on the office door. She roughly swiped at her dried tears, her cheeks hot and sticky. It appeared she had kicked off her shoes in her sleep.

“Hermione?” came a voice from the other side of the door. From the Muggle pop music throbbing in the background, she deduced that the party was still in full swing.

“I'm just having a quick nap,” she called back, her tongue thick in her mouth.

“Oh right – sorry!” A rush of whispers followed.

Hermione shifted to curl up on her other side, her unruly hair falling like brambles across her face.

“Alex?” she called out a moment later.

“Yes, Hermione?” came the hopeful reply.

“Malfoy should be here soon. He has the key to the petty cash box if you lot would like to head out on the town. Tell him I said so.”

A flurry of excitement rose up outside the door. Alex and half a dozen others chorused their thanks through the wood.

“You're welcome,” she murmured, already seeking oblivion.

This time she dreamt.

She was back at the vote count at the Ministry, waiting for the election results to be read out. The atrium was crammed with people. Hordes of young witches and wizards vied with each other for a view of her. A contingent of Goblins watched hungrily while Free House Elves cheered with premature excitement from somewhere near the floor. Hermione picked out a few shabbily dressed individuals in the crowd; even the Werewolves had come out for her. In the middle of it all Hagrid stood like a great oak tree among saplings. Overwhelmed by this show of faith, she sought out the red and white at the side of the platform, the place where Ron and Malfoy had rubbed along uncomfortably for the past year. Malfoy stood alone, momentarily unoccupied with the business of promises and policies. He caught her gaze and held it, his grey eyes fierce with some emotion.

A roar of jubilation drew her away from him. She felt her hand being taken up by the Minister for Magic and shaken with unrestrained enthusiasm. He was speaking to her, but she could scarcely hear him over the cheers reverberating off the atrium's walls. Bodies thronged the platform to listen to her victory speech. With every word, she thought of Ron. When she finished, she descended the platform steps and was embraced as she had never been before.

The next time she broke the surface into wakefulness, she was instantly aware of another presence in the room.

“Granger, ever the party animal.”

Malfoy stood somewhere along the opposite wall. Hermione could feel his eyes on her in the dark.

She slowly propped her cheek up on her right hand. An aching hollowness still lurked within her. She sought out the ring on her left hand.

“How did the interview go?” she managed at last.

A pause. “You didn't watch it?”

“I caught part of it before I fell asleep. Skeeter seemed to be on her best behaviour.”

“Which isn't saying much. I can't believe she thought you'd agree to an interview.”

“She didn't truly believe it,” Hermione half spoke into her hand. “She just wanted a chance to ingratiate herself. Awful woman.”

“Members of the Wizengamot do not trap journalists in glass jars, Granger,” Malfoy reminded her.

A moment passed. “I can't believe you fed her stories all through fourth year,” she murmured.

“I can't believe you lot weren't doing the same.”

“We learned how to play that game by fifth year.”

“And now you've got the press eating out of the palm of your hand.” His tone was wry, and proud. It had taken years, but she could tell. He continued, his voice lowering, “It's practically Slytherin, the way you play them off one another.”

Hermione hmm'd in reply. She heard the whisper of expensive fabric as Malfoy shifted against the wall.

“What's happened?” he asked.

“I got elected, didn't you hear?” she said drily. At the stony silence, she added, “I'm just tired, Malfoy. It's been a long day.”

“We're all tired. It's been a long year. What's happened?”

“Nothing's happened,” she insisted, sitting up straight in the chair and wrapping her arms about herself.

A pause. “Is it Weasley? I was surprised he wasn't at the Ministry. I thought he'd at least show up here and have a go at out-drinking the interns.”

A fist closed around her heart. She opened her mouth to draw a shuddering breath.

Malfoy sighed in exasperation, probably running a hand through his hair. “As much as I loathe saying this, Granger, you shouldn't let a minor tiff with your fiancé spoil the most important night of your career. We did it. We fucking did it! The witless wonder can go hang, at least for tonight.”

“Ex-fiancé.”

All sound stopped on Malfoy's side of the room.

“What?” His voice was low.

She cleared her throat. “Ex-fiancé,” she repeated, a little louder. Her chest rose and fall with each shallow breath. “Ron and I are finished. For good this time. He- I- we ended things a few days ago.”

Malfoy swore under his breath and conjured a ball of bluish light. It floated in the middle of the room, casting everything into hues of indigo and silver. From his spot across from her, Malfoy took in Hermione's appearance without meeting her eyes.

He gripped his wand. “Days ago?” The words were laced with surprising anger. In the light, his eyes and hair glimmered. “Days ago?” He paced in front of the desk, hands in pockets and shoulders hunched.

“Did you not think to inform me, Granger? I've been blathering on about your impending nuptials in every bloody interview! Your marrying a Pureblood was what convinced some people that you weren't an iconoclastic headcase.” His gaze remained fixed on the carpet. “Half of the people who voted for you are probably expecting an invitation to the bloody wedding!” He stopped his prowling. “And why are you still wearing _that_?” he spat, glaring at the ring.

She reached for it with her right hand, as though fearing he would wrench it from her.

She shrugged helplessly. “I couldn't take it off. I know I should have, I just couldn't do it.” Tears had begun coursing down her cheeks and neck, soaking into the collar of her pale blue dress robes.

“What makes this time different?” He spoke harshly, cruelly.

“Sorry?”

He shot her a withering look. “How do you know that you and Weasley won't be back together by next week? It's happened before. There's no point informing the press if everything's going to be rosy in a few days' time.” He turned away and walked back towards the wall.

She raised a shaking hand to her face. “You didn't hear him, Malfoy. He's done with me- with us. The campaign has been hard on him-” she ignored Malfoy's scoffing as he leant against the wall “- and you better than anyone know how rocky things have been the last few years.” She sniffed. “I don't think even Harry has witnessed our shouting matches like you have.”

Malfoy scratched his jaw. “I think that's because I was the cause of most of them, Granger,” he said without inflection.

She swallowed, her throat ached. “Well, Ron's always been a bit-”

“Dim?”

“- jealous.”

“Was that what it was this time? What was so fucking awful that he had to pitch a fit now of all times?” He jerked his head. “Was he pissed off that you were going to win? I wouldn't put it past him.”

“No,” she denied emphatically. “It was something I did – he found out about something I did years ago and kept from him. It was the final straw.”

Malfoy stilled. The question hung in the air.

He was the first to look away. “Would you like me to owl Potter or someone?” She shook her head. He glanced at his watch. “Your first meeting is at half-past eight tomorrow, so you can get a full night's sleep if you go now. The team's heading out to a nightclub of some description soon, so you're free to take your leave.”

Something in Malfoy's movements alerted her.

“Are you going? To the nightclub, I mean.” She swiped at her tears and hugged herself more tightly on the chair.

He glowered at her. “After the last time? I think not.”

“That was five years ago, Malfoy.”

“And I'm still scarred by the experience.”

“So what are your plans for the rest of the evening, then?” she asked, concern bleeding into her voice. “Going to go to the club for some Pureblood backslapping?”

“You mean for electing the unelectable?” He shrugged. “It's a possibility. I don't really feel like drinking on my own Galleon tonight.”

“And I see you've started already,” she said, frowning. “I thought you would at least wait for me.”

“If I waited for you, I'd be waiting a bloody long time, Granger,” he replied, his tone mocking. “And besides, I had to do a live interview with Rita Skeeter. Getting a little merry was the least I could do for myself.” He swung round to look at her. “Did you know the cameras make a constant fizzing sound during filming? The Muggle ones don't do that, do they? Didn't think so...”

“What are you going to do now?” she asked. “After all this?” They'd skirted the topic for months now. For some reason, she couldn't bear not knowing any longer.

“Aside from writing a tell-all book about you?” He glanced away. “I'll begin looking for my next charity case, I suppose...” He stroked his chin. “How hard do you think it would be to get a House Elf appointed Minister for Magic?” He smirked. “The slogans would write themselves.”

“I'm being serious.”

“Egads, Granger. I don't bloody well know. I've thought about it. Too much, even. I've had some offers-”

“What kinds of offers?”

“Standard fare. Gringotts, the Ministry, Hogwarts-”

“Hogwarts?”

His eyes glittered in the periwinkle gloom. “Oh yes. Old Sluggy's retiring soon, for good this time. McGonagall wrote to me about it. She thinks if I do a year-long Potions apprenticeship, I can learn the rest as I go along. She also dropped heavy hints that I'd be Slytherin Head of House as well.”

Hermione spluttered. “McGonagall? Potions? _Head of Slytherin_?”

“Don't act so shocked, Granger. You're the one who's rehabilitated me. Clearly, Minerva thinks I'm a suitable role model now. Congratulations.” He gave her a slight nod.

“But you haven't brewed so much as a cup of tea since Hogwarts!” she exclaimed, aghast at the thought of Malfoy in charge of children, and again when she realised that he'd still be more personable than Snape.

There was a knock at the door, interrupting them. Malfoy moved quickly to open it, deliberately screening Hermione from view. A shaft of yellow light invaded the office, diluting the blue glow of the orb. Her eyes landed on a framed photo atop the desk, of her and Ron at Hogwarts, one of the few without Harry. Her stomach twisted. She reached out and turned it over.

“Hello Alex...and everybody else,” Malfoy greeted the assembled group. There was no longer any music playing.

“We just wanted to check whether you or Hermione wanted to come out with us? We're leaving now,” Alex said.

“I think we're going to give this one a miss, Alex,” Malfoy replied with feigned regret, “Just make sure you're all here at... ten o'clock tomorrow morning to help pack up the office.”

“Of course, Draco, we'll be here. Thanks!” Alex gushed.

“Before you all head off,” Malfoy began somewhat stiffly, “I just wanted to thank you all for your hard work over the past few weeks and months. I know some of you weren't too sure when I came on board, but I hope that with tonight's result you're all pleased and proud of what we've achieved here.”

“Here here!” called Hermione from behind the desk, feeling she could hide no longer. Malfoy shifted aside to allow her to see the entire campaign staff clustered around the door. She leaned forward on her elbows, hands clasped together. “I know I gave my thank-you speech earlier,” she said, “But Malfoy certainly speaks for the both of us. I am floored by you all. Thank you so much for your help, your commitment and your courage. Now go and take your victory lap!” she smiled. “See you all tomorrow!”

After a few minutes of fussing with coats and cloaks and handbags, she and Malfoy were left alone.

Still at the threshold, he turned around. “Care to come out of your cave? There's booze out there,” he nodded in the direction of the larger room. He gave the door a gentle push, letting it open wide, and bright light flooded the office.

Hermione held up a hand to shield her eyes. She became uncomfortably aware of her mussed hair and creased dress robes.

As if sensing this, Malfoy replaced the harsh light with another one of his blue orbs. He moved off into the room, most likely in search of the the aforementioned alcohol. Hermione followed and found him perched on a desk in the corner trying to operate the Muggle hi-fi while pouring drinks.

“Here, let me do it,” she said as she drew near. “You get the drinks.” Remembering her wand was back in her office, she turned to go.

“Use mine,” Malfoy said, holding out his. He cocked an eyebrow. After another breath, she took it gently in her hand, thumb whispering along the silky wood. She turned and reapplied the charm on the hi-fi that allowed it to work in such a magically dense location. Music immediately blasted out, causing Hermione to jump and Malfoy to hiss and cover his ears. She twiddled the volume dial lower and began skipping through the songs on the CD.

“Leave it there, Granger,” Malfoy said after half a dozen songs, “I actually like this one.”

So did Ron. She skipped on, choosing a power ballad that had been one of her father's favourites.

Returning to Malfoy, she exchanged his wand for a generous tumbler of amber liquid before settling back on top of the desk. She took the first burning sip, her stockinged toes curling in pleasure as the rich warmth spread through her. She should have done this earlier.

Her eyes strayed to Malfoy on her right, who was nursing his glass against his chest. In the charmed half-light, he looked like a statue cast from iron and silver.

“The Drinker,” she murmured to herself.

Malfoy shot her an inquiring look and took a swallow of whiskey, baring his teeth as it went down.

“If I'm not mistaken, you introduced me to the joys of Muggle music,” he intoned at last.

Hermione smiled into her glass. “That's a serious accusation, Malfoy. I hope you have evidence to back it up.” She took another sip, her legs swinging gently.

“March 2006,” he declared. “You dragged me onto the Underground and shoved little things in my ears and forced me to listen.”

“I remember that day quite differently. We were going to a meeting on the other side of London, with the...”

“Policy wonk from the _Abteilung Magischer Geschöpfe_ ,” he supplied.

“Yes, and I had just come down with the flu. I didn't fancy Apparating or Flooing more than necessary, so I decided to take the Tube. You tagged along. When you asked about the wires coming out of everyone's ears on the train, I showed you what they did. You were entirely willing,” she concluded.

“You were sweating buckets and swooning all over the office, Granger. If I hadn't gone with you, we'd have found you in a heap at the bottom of the escalators.”

“That was just your excuse,” she jabbed a finger at him. “I knew perfectly well you were dying to go on the Tube.” She tilted her head, “Was it worth it?”

“Having to surreptitiously conjure you an obscene number of tissues while standing face to armpit with morose Muggles?” He tossed back his drink. “Absolutely.”

“Whatever happened to Helmut?” she wondered aloud. “He really knew his stuff on House Elves.”

“He's set up a pressure group,” Malfoy replied. “He may have sent a few letters over the past few months, asking for your support. They were put in the non-urgent pile.”

“Ah.” She eyed the towering stack of post in the corner with trepidation.

“Tomorrow, Granger.” He topped up her glass.

A new song began to play, throbbing softly through the speakers.

“I haven't heard this in years,” Hermione said. She opened her mouth to elaborate, but thought better of it.

They sat in silence on the desk, not quite touching. Every once in a while, one of them would recall something from the past ten years of working together. They bickered over the details in a desultory fashion, about who said what and when, which department head they had deliberately left out of a crucial meeting, how many times mutual ignorance of the other's upbringing had led to furious arguments, and later, fits of laughter.

Ron, whose presence bookended so many of these memories, went unmentioned.

As she drank, Hermione's mind was slowly swaddled in layer upon layer of contentment. Now the aching in her chest was accompanied by a vague sense that things might turn out alright, a not entirely illusory conviction that it was all for the best. She chased this synthetic hope, taking a large gulp. She held herself entirely still, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

“You okay there, Granger?” asked Malfoy as her head dropped onto his shoulder.

She nodded, keeping her eyes closed. The smell of whiskey and Malfoy invaded her senses. The pounding dance music faded and she waited for the next song to start. After a long minute, her foggy mind understood that the CD had finished.

“Why did you and Astoria Greengrass break it off?” Her eyes flicked open as the words left her mouth. She turned her head and peered up at Malfoy through her lashes.

His eyes were narrowed, but not in anger. He was formulating an answer.

“We wouldn't have made each other happy.” His voice held no bitterness.

Hermione sat up straight again. “But you said that happiness wasn't a priority, that it was like getting a nice flavour in a box of Bertie Botts.”

“When did I say that?” his pale eyebrows drew together.

“Ages ago. I think I was railing against the idea of arranged marriages-”

“It wasn't an-”

“I know that now,” she placated him. “Although you do say highly idiotic things when you're being defensive.”

“I know,” he said.

“So do I,” she offered, recalling Ron's stricken face.

“I know,” he said.

She felt Malfoy shift beside her and looked up to find him watching her. “I don't believe it.”

“Don't believe what?” she asked, bringing a hand up to rest on his shoulder.

“I don't believe you're capable of doing anything sufficiently terrible to drive Weasley away.”

She turned away as her arms slipped to her stomach. “Not objectively terrible, no. But subjectively...” Her mind wandered. “It was the summer after the battle. You know how it was. Everything was crazy: celebrations, rebuilding, more weddings even than funerals. Ron and I got caught up in it like everyone else. I let myself be swept along. I was... careless.”

It was as if Malfoy had disappeared. Other than his body heat, there was no sign that she wasn't completely alone in the room. His stillness reassured her.

She continued, “When I found out, it felt like being wrenched out of a wonderful dream. All of a sudden I was standing on the other side, in grey reality, while everyone else clung onto the illusion.” She cleared her throat. “I didn't have anyone to talk to: Harry and Ginny were already engaged and discussing baby names over breakfast, and Mrs Weasley was still distraught over Fred's death. Ron was trying everything to try to fix his family, I was terrified he would see me – see us as a way to do it. I knew I wouldn't have the heart to refuse.”

Malfoy's hand was suddenly on her forearm, unyielding. She covered his hand with her own clammy one.

“It was the right decision. I believed so then and I still believe it now. But I knew Ron would never forgive me if he knew,” she swallowed, “and I was right.”

“Granger-” he began.

“If I hadn't done it, I wouldn't be here right now. I would be happy – of course I would be happy,” she looked up, desperate to see that he understood, “but I wouldn't be here.”

Malfoy wouldn't meet her eyes.

“I'm really glad I have you,” she said all of a sudden, her voice quiet but firm. She pressed on. “I trust you and you trust me. We know we can rely on each other. And we don't have any secrets.”

His eyes found hers, his expression strange. Then the blue orb of light went out.

Seconds stretched into minutes. She started when she felt Malfoy reach for her left hand in the dark. He brought his face so close as he held her hand in his.

His thumb brushed over the ring.

“Hermione.”

“Draco?”


End file.
